Buy My Soul (Sixty Days 2)

It was the very trigger I needed to pull my sensibilities back.

Not about the money.

It was always about the money. The whole fucking world was about the money.

But maybe not for sorry little Jake Wharton.

My plan of action came tumbling back in in a heartbeat. Thank fuck for his idiot pings on my social media profile. I cast her grip aside enough to reach my phone from my pocket.

Late.

It was late.

But maybe not too fucking late to get some clarity on my own crazy fucking scheme.

“We’ll talk it through,” I told her, drawing a line well and truly in the sand with this whole sorry debacle. “But not now. Now I have business calling.”

Her nod was weak but enough. She didn’t make a move to stop me as I stepped away and to a safer emotional distance in the room. At least some of her submissive state was still burning strong.

“Rest and recover,” I said, well aware my voice was its usual bark of self-assurance. “I’ll be back before the night’s through. We’ll talk then.”

“Ok, thank you, sir… master…” she replied in that soft little voice of hers, and I hated it. Hated how much I loved it.

I didn’t hold on a minute longer, bolting out of that place in a beat and taking the stairs down two at once. Eric was waiting at the bottom, looking nearly as fucking shocked as the siren upstairs.

“What the hell was going on in there earlier?” he asked, but I held up a hand.

“Not now, jackass. Fuck off!”

He followed me outside like a rat on my heels. “I don’t even know what to make of it. You were so loved up in there I thought you were gonna fucking propose to her. She’s got you well and good, only it’s her that gave the I love you crap, yeah? I heard it loud and clear. We all heard it loud and clear. Clients galore heard it loud and fucking clear.”

Like I needed fucking telling.

I pulled my car keys from my pocket and bleeped the central locking.

“Where are you fucking going?” he asked. “Seriously, Bran, what the fuck is going down?”

I shot him enough of a glance to see the weird grimace on his face, clearly not quite sure what to make of the spectacle. His hands were fidgety in front of him.

“Out,” I grunted. “I have business calling. We’ll talk later.”

He shrugged a half shrug. “What is this?! Another sixty-day girl coming calling? A skinny dip in the fucking sea to clean the emotional bullshit off you? I just don’t fucking get it.”

“So don’t get it,” I said. “It’s not your concern.”

“No, but Drake is,” he grunted. “And Drake will be yours too soon enough if you don’t get your shit in order. Did you even read his messages?”

I didn’t grace him with an answer to that one, just piled in the car and turned the key in the ignition, pulse racing as I sped my way out of the driveway and onto my next meet up.

I used the hands free dashboard to dial Jake Wharton’s number en route.

“On my way to the pier,” I told him. “You’d better be fucking waiting.”

And so he was.

I could see the figure on the beach as I parked the car on the street above. The kid was trussed up with his sports hoodie covering most of his features in the shadows, but I knew it was him on sight. The beach was deserted, but there was no sliver of confusion, just him jittering from foot to foot, shifting his weight on light feet as the wind ate him up under the strut hollows.

I approached slowly, eyes burning as I closed the distance. He stilled as he clocked my presence, pressing his back to one of the wooded posts and keeping me in clear vision as I joined him by the waterline.

“She’s ok, is she? Paige Emmerson is ok?” he demanded as soon as I was in earshot, and I couldn’t hold back the half smirk at his billowing concern.

“Paige Emmerson is just fine,” I told him. “My question to you is why does it fucking matter?”

I leant against the post opposite him, pleased at how obvious his posture was to read in the shadows. He was hunched up, nervous but desperate. Desperate for her safety.

Which is exactly what I wanted him to be.

“I care about her,” he offered. “I know her from college. She’s nice. Really nice.”

I didn’t mince my words. “You want to fuck her, don’t you? You wanted to fuck her that night on the beach. Get enough of a taste to drive you fucking crazy, did you?”

Somehow I didn’t doubt it.

But no. He didn’t agree with me. Another indication that the two of us were such polar fucking opposites on the nice guy front.